Corpse Flower
by Ritzcraft
Summary: It turns out that the dead can, in fact, tell tales. And oh, what fanciful stories they weave. After having to drop off the radar upon the discovery of the Chesapeake Ripper's lair, Beverly Katz moves to a town with bright scenery, colorful neighbors, and a certain pie shop with a most interesting proprietor. AU in which Beverly survives her encounter with Hannibal.
1. Chapter 1

I've had this sitting around on tumblr for a while, so I decided to post it here as well. Updates will be slow with this, be warned. Inspired by my own fervent denial of recent events, I just couldn't resist the pull of writing such a delightful crossover. I tried my best to get characters' ages and small details right, but if there's anything glaringly wrong, please feel free to point it out so I can correct it. Note also that I'm not looking to be super philosophical about my writing or anything. This is all in good fun and I wanted to fit the writing style with the narration from Pushing Daisies, but you'll see a lot of my own voice coming through as well.

Warning: This story contains SPOILERS for all of Hannibal up to episode 4 of season 2. After that point, the canon events will be disregarded for…obvious reasons. Also since this is a crossover with Hannibal's veritable polar opposite…don't expect things to be all dark and gloomy all the time. This is supposed to be a fun thing, as my poor attempts at humor will attest to. As far as alignment with the Pushing Daisies storyline…this takes place toward the beginning of season 2.

Well then, let's get down to the dirty business!

**Sampler: Almost Mincemeat (this is your prologue thing)**

The facts were these;

Beverly Katz was approximately 31 years, 5 months, and 17 days of age when she made a discovery that, for all intents and purposes, should have served as proof of the Chesapeake Ripper's true identity.

Perhaps it had indeed been foolish to go alone to the lair of the beast, but Beverly had found aforementioned proof right inside of Hannibal Lecter's refrigerator. Said proof took the form of a Ziploc-packed kidney, dated and labeled with the name of a recently-dead murder muralist. The flavor of victory was almost too strong for Beverly to handle. In her hands was essentially a confession, vacuum sealed for freshness and likely intended to be made into a steak and kidney pie later. The thought made Beverly cringe, for she was quite a fan of pie (when it didn't contain organ meats from a man who was known for stitching people together and spraying them with resin). Nevertheless, she had what she needed to prove her friend's innocence—and it was **definitely** Hannibal Lecter's handwriting on the bag, all slants in neat letters and, shockingly, ascribed onto the plastic with a sharpie. Beverly had always figured Lecter for a "custom labels" kind of guy…

Fate, however, being a cruel and ironic entity, led to Beverly spilling a glass of carelessly left wine (or had it been done on purpose? She was beginning to fully understand that Lecter was a crafty sort of bastard), thus leading to the discovery of a basement which would be right at home in a Saw movie. The proof within was beyond damning, a veritable playground of murder toys and devices that would make Inquisitors proud. It reminded her of a room in a meat packaging plant. She'd found him, alright.

But then he found her.

Like a scene from a horror film, dripping with anxious sweat and the scent of an overused cliche, as soon as she turned on the lights and turned around, he was there. She should have known it seemed too easy, that the basement had been presented too obviously, that it was too good to be true when Zeller had told her the good doctor was at the hospital with Jack. And she felt fearful, truly fearful for perhaps the first time in her life. Bile rose up in her throat at the thought that he had been in her lab, in her personal space, and she had once been alone with the monster without knowing what he was, welcoming the wolf in sheep's clothing. Will had been right all along. Hannibal Lecter had played them all like a finely-tuned violin (or a slightly less well-tuned harpsichord). How many people had he killed? What exactly had he done to Will? Just how far would his reach extend?

Worse than any of those thoughts was the fact that she was fairly certain she'd eaten his cooking before. Had her dinner's name been Bob?

But none of her disgust or fear showed as she stared coldly at the killer and raised her gun. For a brief moment, their eyes locked, justice staring into the profane. Then he lunged for the switch, intent on plunging them into darkness. Beverly's heart leaped into her throat in anticipation of the death she was sure lurked near. But then she fired at the man, and in his hasty movements, he completely missed the switch. A bubble of insane, relieved laughter threatened to escape her, particularly at the funny scuttle-dance he did to position himself upright after his miss. He made another move toward the light, only to backpedal as a bullet sank into the floor inches from his (now scuffed) leather shoes. He left the light then, stalking towards her with an eerie stoicism. Heart racing, Beverly took a deep breath, aimed a few inches away from Lecter's head, and fired. She wasn't looking to kill him, not by any means. She'd rather see him stewed slowly in his own pot after serving years and years in the very cell that Will Graham wrongly called home. There'd be nothing as satisfying as burning all of his stupid suits and seeing him wear those ugly Velcro shoes.

The bullet whizzed a mere breath away from Lecter's ear and he stopped charging her, reflex alone breaking his concentration in a bid to avoid having the lead burrow into his temporal lobe. Beverly took the opportunity to book it.

In her rush to escape what was definitely among the top ten worst nights of her life, Beverly did not realize she had dropped the muralist's kidney. She would not realize it until she was well on the road, risking many a speeding ticket in her quest to put distance between herself and the simpering psychopath.

She cursed aloud when she realized her mistake, but collected herself with the assurance that she could just tell Jack all that had happened. And so she did, with nary an embellishment or unnecessary factoid, but when the team charged into Hannibal's basement, they found nothing.

No saws or plastic suits or anything. There wasn't a single human body part in his home, whether it be the refrigerator or any other hidden-away spot. It was almost as though Beverly had dreamed the whole affair, and the only evidence to the contrary was the knowing, self-satisfied smirk Hannibal wore as they exited his home empty-handed.

Beverly was quite certain of what she'd seen, what had occurred in the basement, and that Lecter had somehow gotten rid of anything even remotely incriminating (even if that one painting he had of the lady getting it on with a swan was incriminating enough for Beverly's taste). She was also certain that now, since his secret was out and that she was the keeper of it, Hannibal would be even more dangerous to be around. She could no more insist on a conviction without evidence than she could stomach steak tartar. She could not speak to Jack about it either, for he was beyond furious that his time and resources had been wasted, that his most trusted forensics expert had led him into an empty alley. Zeller and Price would be no help, either, because there was no way Jack would give an accusation of such magnitude any consideration—at least not from their mouths. Worse still, she was utterly forbidden from visiting Will again, to at least tell him that she now knew the truth.

Thus, with no other options and knowing that continuing her work meant that she'd be marked with a "use by" date, Beverly Katz tendered her resignation the very next day without explanation. Her friends and colleagues would later find that her home, a quaint apartment with too-white walls, had been cleared of any trace of her existence. She left no indication to anyone where she would be going, and in fact she had no inkling either. She would simply stop driving when she found a place that seemed like a good spot to do so.

And so it came to pass that Beverly Katz, at 31 years, 5 months, and 18 days of age, vanished from Quantico as she squeezed all of the worldly possessions that she could into her small car and drove into the sunset, intent on parts unknown.


	2. Chapter 2

I wasn't sure if I'd find the spark to continue this, but what do you know? I found my inspiration after all. For the time being anyway.

**Notes:** The coroner's name is never mentioned. EVER. So I made one up. And the name of the city is also never mentioned, but given Pushing Daisies' penchant for double names, I'm going to say the city is Papen, in Papen county (Papen county IS mentioned, but damnit why don't they give us an actual city name?)

Warning: this chapter contains graphic descriptions of pie. You may become hungry.

**Chapter TWO**

Business had become slow.

Not so slow that the Pie Hole's doors would need to be closed (in fact, the shop's popularity practically guaranteed its success until the day people stopped liking pie, which was unlikely), nor slow enough that Ned had time to reconsider the color scheme, but slow enough to allow a bit of melancholy in.

Yes, the pie maker's life was good. He had a good job in a profession he excelled at, close friends he could rely on, a loving canine companion, and a loving childhood sweetheart. Even though his unique secret meant that he could neither pet the dog nor kiss his girlfriend without either of them dying, his relationships did not cause him any more stress or heartbreak than one would expect anyway from a man who could raise the dead. Yes, there were night when Ned would lay in his bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering if there was any chance that somewhere out there, someone else suffered from his same affliction. Yes, some nights he wondered if Digby would be happier with an owner who could scratch behind his ears without killing him, if Chuck would be better off with a man who could hold her and kiss her and stroke her hair when she was feeling sad, if the entire Pie Hole would thrive better under different ownership. But those worries had always been in his company, since the very first time he touched a dead thing back to life. Ned knew well how to cope with those worries, how to bottle them up and let them out in controlled bursts in the form of delicious culinary creations. These were not the thoughts that his mind turned to in the face of idle hours.

Indeed, the slowness bugging the pie maker was a sort difficult to give a name to. Not the slowness of business or the slowness of life, not the slowness of the cases he used his special ability to close. It was the slowness that suggested a change was in the air, the lull before someone dropped an atom bomb in the middle of the city.

This feeling made the pie maker anxious (many things did), and he resorted to laying a siege to the kitchen in his shop, assembling in his wake many a stress-baked tin.

When Chuck and Olive made their way to the kitchen later, they encountered a veritable army of homestyle confections ranging from apple to shoo-fly and with every conceivable kind in between. While this was fine due to the need to replenish the daily stock, Chuck noted with some sadness that the yellow pansies in the window boxes were dead (and had been for quite a while), and the flowers int eh window boxes across the street looked similarly wilted. This meant that Ned had touched a lot of fruit back to life, enough for way more pies than was necessary. Which meant…

"You're stress baking again," she accused as Ned turned towards Olive and herself, a tray of cup-pies in hand.

"Yikes, you could say that again." Olive said to her much taller companion. For behind the pie maker, not an inch of counter space was clear. Under trays of cup pies and already sliced pecan pies, lovely lattice-topped caramel apple pies waited to be slid into the oven by the pie maker's tender touch. Bits of crust, both raw and baked, littered the floor like flaky caltrops. Apple peels, apple cores, orange zest and lemon zest, berry bits and peach pits…all of these created a colorful, fruity confetti about the workspace. In the midst of it all, looking a bit ruffle and bewildered at being caught in the act, the pie maker was beginning to resemble a deer in headlights.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?" Chuck asked him gently, wishing more than anything that she could take his hand to offer him comfort.

"Did Emerson do something?" Olive inquired. "I swear if he hadn't helped me with that fiasco at the convent, I'd slip something in his strawberry-rhubarb. For your sake. He's way too harsh, you know who treats friends that way?"

Ned ant the girl called Chuck stared at their motor-mouthed friend, wondering how she managed to fit something that sounded strongly like a death threat into a sentence and seem so chipper about it. The added chipper tone made the comment more sinister than it would have been otherwise. The feeling soon dissipated though. It was Olive after all.

"No, no Emerson didn't do anything. He hasn't even been here today. Nobody's done anything. Nobody's called or fallen from the roof, and neither of you are broken or bleeding—and you both look lovely by the way—nobody's…I'm not stress-baking," Ned defended weakly.

"Sweetie, you have crumbs in your hair," Chuck pointed out and moved to brush away said bakery debris, before remembering that even a simple touch like that could mean her life. "Something is wrong."

"And if that something happens to be a tall, robust detective named after a white-fleshed oily fish, you just say the word and I'll make sure his next daily special is extra special," Olive offered.

"Emerson didn't do anything," Ned repeated. "No one did anything. Nothing is wrong. It's just, with everything that's been happening lately, hasn't it felt like things are a little…slow?"

His words had been meant to console Chuck, who looked supremely worried for his well-being. How he wished he could take her hand to offer her comfort…

But instead of looking consoled, Ned's sentence. Seemed to confuse chuck. He watched as her brows furrowed in bewilderment.

"Slow? The Pie Hole is always busy. What do you mean?"

"I know what he means," Olive interjected before Ned could formulate a reply. "Things have kind of…died down, right? With your—" here, Olive glanced about the store for any wayward eavesdroppers, then turned back to Ned with a fierce whisper. "Your other business?"

"Was that some kind of pun? No. not really," Ned answered. Emerson brought in new cases every day, it seemed. Olive did not appear to hear him.

"It's really only natural," the petite blonde continued. "Just like anything else, there are busy times and downtime. People can't die all the time. Sometimes you can go for a whole month without reading about anything in the paper, and the headlines all have to do with kittens or something. Are you tired of those headlines, Ned? Are you tired of kittens? Are you…hoping for something bad to happen?"

"What's with you today?" the pie maker shot back. "And no, not that kind of slow! It's hard to explain. It feels like the tectonic plates have stopped shifting, or the currents in the oceans have stopped flowing. It just feels…stagnant."

"I thought you liked stagnant? You say all the time how you hate change and like being a tightly wound bundle of stability. Are you wound too tight?"

"It's not that. I do hate change. I love predictability. This feels like the kind of stagnant that means something big is about to splash down and send little unwanted ripples of changed all across the lake of sameness. I don't like it."

"So you're worried that something is going to happen? Well, if you spend your whole life keeping anything from happening to you, nothing will ever happen to you," Chuck said. Coming from a man who not only returned her from a state of death, but did so on a less permanent basis for other in order to solve the mysteries of their deaths, it was just a bit ridiculous.

"My bad feelings are right a disproportionately large amount of the time," Ned point out. "So excuse me if thought tend to whirl around in my mind like little mice trying to find a way through a maze. And the mice are most likely hopped up on caffeine." Chuck inquired.

The pie maker seemed to awaken hen, becoming aware of the pastry-storm he had created for the first time. His lips pressed together into a think line, his impressively thick eyebrows furrowing together in thought. The simplest answer was "I don't know," but before Ned could voice that thought, or begin to consider how much money would be going to waste when he had to throw away the extras, Olive jumped in with a cleaver, resourceful solution.

"We'll give them away to new customers. Half off for a whole pie to regulars. It'll draw business, get rid of the extra stock, you wont' take as much of a loss, and pitching the pies to customers will keep your sweet little mind from whirring like caffeinated rodents," Olive chirped.

Actually, it could work. While Ned wasn't overly fond of the idea of taking a loss at all (and Emerson would probably slap him upside the head if he heard of the plan)j, there were simply too many pies to sell normally. They had to go away somehow, and having them be eaten was better than throwing them out.

"Okay, that'll work," Ned agreed, before becoming aware of the proposition's stipulations. "Wait, you want me to do the pie-pitching? I uh…I just bake. I don't do the whole public relations thing."

"Exactly," Olive said.

"I think it would be good for you," Chuck said. "It would keep you occupied, and trying to be more social would be healthy. Like honey."

"How do I politely say 'no?'"

"Oh, come on Ned! Who knows, you might even like it! Either way, we aren't letting you back into this kitchen unless something catches on fire."

"Yeah!" Olive agreed, moving to corral Ned out of the kitchen. She and Chuck stood side by side, creating a gate that would be impossible to pass unless Ned employed touch.

"Now get out there and start pitching pies!"

Thus banned from his own kitchen—an event which had only occurred once in a bizarre dream involving alligators and Emerson Cod dressed in an ill-fitting white jumpsuit—the pie maker had no option but to assault every body that came through the door of his shop, hoping that they would even want a whole pie to themselves.

His anxieties were put on hold, for indeed people _were_ willing to take home a whole pie for half price. The late-morning rush soon flooded the Pie Hole, and Ned's odd, but not unfounded premonition was soon forgotten under the weight of several orders of chocolate mouse pie.

At that very moment, a mere half block from the Pie Hole, an FBI agent on the run was experiencing a similarly odd feeling.

Two weeks had passed since Beverly Katz had faced Death personified and been forced into fleeing to a city she often forgot the name of. She'd driven for at least an entire day before coming to a stop in Papen City, in Papen County. Indeed, she would have driven even further, had she not decided that the city was the perfect place to hide from danger.

Ripe with hyper-saturated colors, a seemingly endless supply of sunshine, and populated by environmentally-minded residents, Papen was packed with enough saccharine happiness that, were Hannibal Lecter to ever set foot in its limits, Beverly was pretty convinced that he'd catch on fire.

And so it was that Beverly set to firmly plant herself with in the community. She quickly found an apartment within walking distance of a peculiar, pie-shaped building. It was a small space, but cozy. The hot water always worked, she had a nice vaulted ceiling, the carpets were new, and perhaps most importantly, the landlord had taken her deposit without doing a background check, saying only "I trust you."

Beverly's belongings fit perfectly within her space, with no need to cram boxes into a closet, and the sense of danger which had loomed over her since Quantico was swept away. There was a deep sense of peace here, a calmness and light that her job in forensics had long since chased away. She wished Will could live in a place like this. Perhaps once he was freed and Hannibal Lecter had been sealed in a vault far, far away, she could talk to him about a visit. She could see him enjoying a fishing trip to a sunny lake, and was willing to bet his gaggle of dogs would,too.

Thinking of Will, and work, and everything she'd been forced to leave behind made Beverly desperately homesick. For while she was glad that curiosity had not, in fact, killed the Katz, thinking of all the people she'd left to their darkness made her feel guilty.

When Beverly felt guilty, she felt like eating. Perhaps a visit to the pie-shaped building would provide an outlet. And hopefully, they didn't serve meat pies…

The instant she stepped through the door, all of Beverly's melancholy shriveled and died. The space was a super concentrated smorgasbord of cheerfulness, teeming with vaporized diabetes, dripping with warmth and charm and smelling of baked apples and cinnamon. A golden retriever lay near the counter, gazing wistfully at a handsome young man engaged in conversation with two colorfully-dressed women.

Beverly utterly melted. While part of her wondered if the place was yet another front for vicious cannibalism, a quick glance at a menu resting atop a nearby table revealed that these pies were nothing but sweet, sweet, cavity-inducing goodness.

'Oh, god. They have caramel apple pie,' she shuddered with delight, oblivious to the miniature crisis occurring between the pie maker and his companions.

"How are we doing?" Ned panted, a bit winded from his assignment of greeting every customer to come through the doors. "How much is left back there?"

"Still six whole pies," Chuck supplied, further deflating the pie maker's spirits.

Ned donned a facial expression that resembled that of a sad and homeless puppy.

"That many?"

"Cheer up, sport." Olive squeezed his shoulder in a gesture of support. "Look, there's a chance to get rid of one right now!"

The tiny woman gestured to Beverly, who was still engrossed in examining the menu.

"She's never been here before. Go, go get her," Olive said.

"How can you possibly know that?" Ned asked, though the former jockey was indeed correct.

"Does it matter? She's a customer, you're the pie maker. So go sell pie!"

Olive gave Ned a surprisingly powerful shove towards the woman, unceremoniously throwing him to the sharks once more. Ned's shoulders slumped in defeat, and he greatly regretted that he'd allowed his girlfriend and his waitress to become roommates. But with a deep breath, he righted himself and went on his way, an awkward shuffle-march steering him towards the newcomer. She still read the menu, fingers tracing back and forth between Key Lime and Caramel Apple.

"Um.." Ned cleared his throat awkwardly. "HI there. Do you see anything you'd like?"

Beverly was finally brought back to reality, startled from her sweet perusal by a gentle, deep voice with a touch of boyish nervousness. She glanced up to be greeted by a face which was just as boyish, dark eyes framed by eyebrows the likes of which she'd never seen before. Yet they suited him, just as the nervous but charming half-grin the man wore did. He was tall, but he stood in such a way that he seemed like he'd prefer to fold in on himself. He avoided making direct eye contact with her, and Beverly thought again of Will.

"Well aren't you just the cutest thing?" she grinned at him. "You know what? I've always been a sucker for caramel apple. You don't get it too often where I'm from. I'll take a slice for here and one for the road."

"Sure," Ned replied. "I'll just uh…I'll bring them right out."

The pie maker simultaneously cursed his self-imposed lack of social skills and the fact that Olive, who he had hired to make up for that, had wrangled him into doing what she herself usually did. He barely got three steps before remembering that he was supposed to try getting rid of the extra stock, and stepped backwards three paces before turning around.

"I'm sorry," he said. "This is going to sound strange, but since you're a first time customer I'm supposed to offer you a complementary full pie. I'm asking you because even though you don't look like you have any use for an entire pie, the two women over there won't let me into my own kitchen unless I at least ask."

Ned did not know why he'd said so much, nor why he felt the need to justify himself to a stranger. In fact, there was always a bit of fear that if he spoke to strangers, they'd reveal themselves to be FBI agents who had been clued in on his secret, and that he'd be dragged screaming from his beloved Pie Hole, never again to see the light of day.

Beverly of course could not sense his inner turmoil, but she could sense his awkwardness, his unwillingness to step closer into her personal space like most waiters and waitresses did. She offered him an easy smile, feeling bad for him.

"You're right, I don't think I can wrangle a whole one. So just the two slices, if you don't mind. Thanks though."

"Alright. They'll be right out."

The pie maker retreated, and Beverly marveled at just how much the man reminded her of Will Graham. Strange, considering they'd exchanged all of five sentences, yet she saw in the tall baker what her incarcerated friend _could_ be, the light that he could have if he had fewer friends like Hannibal Lecter.

Beverly did not have much time to ponder the similarities, for soon before her appeared the pie, one packaged in a frankly adorable "To-go" box, the other glistening tantalizingly from its plate.

And just as she took her fist bite and was transported to a world of pure, golden-brown bliss, through the door stepped a surly and aggravated issue for the pie maker.

The facts were these.

Private detective Emerson Cod had just experienced the worst morning of his life…or at the very least, he would rank it among his top ten.

He had awoken late to a cramped calf muscle, followed by a rapid and excruciating fall from his bed. The fall, unbroken by any kicked-off bedding and accompanied by a shout of pain, resulted in the destruction of a money cozy, the late-night knitting he'd dedicated himself to before falling asleep.

Not only did the detective receive a rude awakening, but he soon found that his coffee maker's cord was frayed, his favorite shoes were wearing thin on the soles, and that a major hindrance to the more lucrative side of his business had just presented itself.

He had just seated himself at his desk at the office, armed with a cup of inferior instant coffee that tasted like the stench of burning rubber. Atop the desk sat his incomplete re vision of Lil' Gumshoe, a box of forty-two clear push pins, and a copy of the Papen Press. While the front page headlines were brimming with good news about successful fundraisers and record event turnouts, Emerson's gaze did not fix upon them. Instead, the detective's fingers flipped page after page until they reached the obituaries.

One might say it was a morbid hobby, skimming through death notices as though they were classified ads, but to a man who made a profit off of the work of the dead, it was a daily part of his routine. Sometimes, the notices yielded nothing that suggested foul play and thus, no reward. Other times, the paper held uncountable cases for Emerson to bring to Ned's door step, opportunity after opportunity to line his knitted cash cozy collection. Today was a different story altogether. On the page before the obituary section. There was a small article about a topic which immediately caught his eye, aided by the accompanying picture.

Howard Hanover, coroner at the city morgue, had retired. The owners of the morgue were looking into replacing him, but until such a time, the morgue would not allow any open investigations from outside sources and had filled the position on a temporary basis.

Which meant that Emerson Cod, newspaper balled into a crinkled wad, marched into the Pie Hole that day in a decidedly foul mood. He charged up to Ned, who offered a customary polite greeting, and shoved the balled-up page into his hands without a returning hello.

"We got ourselves a problem."


End file.
